


somewhere, someday

by orphan_account



Series: old gods in forgotten kingdoms [4]
Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Family, Family Dynamics, Found Family, Gen, POV Second Person, Royalty, Understanding, What-If, and mato is perfect, i am being critical of the white lady!!!, lapslock, the knight has a few parental figures in their life, tpk not so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 11:50:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21301592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The Knight has encountered many figures on their journey across Hallownest. Only a few have chosen the title of 'parent'.
Relationships: The Knight & Nailmaster Mato (Hollow Knight)
Series: old gods in forgotten kingdoms [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1505879
Comments: 7
Kudos: 173





	somewhere, someday

you do not know what to think of the white lady.

she glows with an almost otherworldly aura, the world around her flickering with a pale white glimmer. it reminds you of purity and light and a host of other things which you are not sure that you will ever experience. light is out of the question.

purity… well. there must have been a reason that you were not the one chosen to contain the infection. there must have been a reason for the pale king to choose the hollow knight. 

the white lady says that you are dark. you are dark, and you are impure, and you will never be able to hold the responsibility which the hollow knight has been secure in for so long. she has no faith in you, you realise.

but… she also says that you have potential. from the folds of cloth wrapped around her, she drops a small piece of something white that glows. it is the size of your fist. you pick it up, and examine it closely. small patterns have been cut into the material. half of a charm, perhaps?

you look up at the white lady once more. slowly, she explains that this is a fragment of the kingsoul ─ a grand charm, containing the essence of the king and his grand power. it is not even a fragment of the feats that he could achieve, merely a small partition of his greatness. she sounds utterly devoted to the king.

you wonder why. you do not wonder why. tucking the fragment of the kingsoul under your cloak, you turn around and leave the cove where the white lady rests. what else could the lady have to offer to you?

the grounds where the palace used to be glow too bright, too bright, too much and that knowledge settles deep within you. you instinctively know that this is not where you belong. this is a lot of things: it is a place for the rich, for the aristocracy and the royalty of hallownest. you are not a royal, despite being of royal blood. you are not rich. you are simply the disgraced, disowned child of a dead king.

somehow he retains the title of father. does he deserve it?

you stay carefully still, and walk until you reach the corpse at the palace grounds. tendrils of void spill from a gap in its armour. the tendrils tether it down, reaching into the body through the small gap and holding it in place. it appears to be a hostage to it.

faint motes of essence glow around the exposed head. you draw the dream nail, staring deeply at it. it glimmers with a faint pink light. nothing like the white lady. nothing like the depictions of the king.

the nail slashes through the corpse’s head.

the white palace feels empty.

of course, it retains a sense of regality and royalty, even in stasis. each hallway and each floor is polished until it gleams, illuminating the palace in a sort of washed-out grey. the air feels clinical and cold. the light hurts you to look at ─ the void within you insists that it will do nothing but hurt you that it will take TAKE TAKE ─

imprints of old nobility still wander the halls. their robes gleam in that same off-white colour. they drop down into bows so steep that their heads scrape against the shining floor. do they sense the presence of the king’s brand, where it burns against your chest? where it marks you as his?

your nail passes through an advisor. it vanishes in a flurry of dream motes. you stare dispassionately at the essence as it floats away. it does not matter. memories have no place in a kingdom as unchanging as hallownest. 

the pale king’s corpse rests on his throne. one clawed appendage holds his head upright, whilst the other hangs loosely at his side. void has long ago infested this room, yet each other part of the palace has remained untouched. what called the void to the king?

you have no need for answers. you will never get answers.

his dead and empty eyes stare at you. through you, almost. they do not see this vessel, stood in plain sight, analysing every little segment of the king’s body. planning how you would kill him, take him apart, bit by bit. every enemy has their weaknesses. you must find them early.

gossamer-thin wings droop down from his back. they look as if they have been spun from a material finer than even silk. they cannot belong to any bug. your own wings differ so vastly from the king’s. his appeared silky in life, you assume, whereas yours are feathered and soft.

this is a bug who is very much dead. his eyes see through you, a thousand-span stare that nothing living can have. it settles within you. what would the king see, were he to wake? would he see a successful vessel, a means to an end? or would he see another failure amongst thousands?

the answers do not matter. you do not dwell on pointless questions. nail lashing out, you strike the weakest points of the corpse. the king’s body falls to the floor, lifeless and unmoving. his fragment of the kingsoul rolls away from it. you tuck it beneath your cloak.

the pieces fit together seamlessly. there is a small click as the kingsoul forms. you do not care 

you descend into the abyss, and see body after body. the floor is littered with the bones of your dead siblings. not siblings. vessels. they are dead and hollowed out. you walk carefully, so as not to disturb the rolling skulls.

there is an odd, quiet serenity to the place. shades drift around the lighthouse, howling and seething with an unknown rage. they calm down when they look at your mask. tendrils of void, not unlike those which held that kingsmold’s corpse, snake out to rub gently over your shoulders. a quiet, gentle breeze seems to roll past you.

these vessels showed feeling. your siblings wrap themselves around you. it is a useless attempt to protect you from the world above, you know. father ─ no, the king’s bindings tie them to the abyss forever.

perhaps you can free them. perhaps the charm on your crest and the brand seared into you are enough to free them. to shatter the bindings placed by the king to keep his failed experiments, his children, trapped where no denizen of hallownest would see them. you do not question if you can. you simply move on and away.

the serenity of the abyss stays with you, though. it feels familiar in a way that you cannot name. like your nail when you first drew it, like your undoubtable prowess in combat. (like hornet and the statue of the hollow knight and your sibling sibling siBLING—)

you will not forget the abyss, even if all of your memories leave you. you will not forget the dead vessels strewn on the floor in their thousands. 

nailmaster mato is… strange.

his house on the howling cliffs is little more than a hut. the wind bursts in gusts through the open doorway. he has to cover himself in several thick rugs and furs at all times. he sits in the quiet, mostly, and hums to himself when he thinks that you are not there.

you do not understand. there are plenty of other places to settle ─ places which are warmer, and safer, and where the wind does not bite at your every move. the nailmaster could have chosen to settle within greenpath or the fungal wastes or even taken up a house within dirtmouth. yet ─ he stays here, at the peak of the world, and he seems happy.

mato smiles as he adds warm water to leaves. he cooks the meat from vengeflies and tiktiks perfectly, and is more than willing to share with you. he does not demand anything of you, like oro (a relative?) did. he simply teaches you for the pleasure of teaching.

he seems… happy. what he has is little to nothing. there is no company on the howling cliffs, only the chill of the wind and that strange, cold substance as it rains down on you. you are the only one who visits him, of that you are sure. you cannot deny his joy when you flit in through the doorway and settle yourself beside him.

there is not much that you share. but mato’s joyous smile as he calls you his pupil, and his undeniable happiness when he calls you his child is enough for the both of you.

**Author's Note:**

> title from somewhere, someday from mother 3 since it encompasses my attempted vaguely depressing and empty tone
> 
> this one is a study on mato and the white lady! chonky nail lad deserves the best tbh
> 
> edit: fixed some writing errors and added more detail so that it flows well 🥰
> 
> twt @ sichengsgods if u wanna pop a follow,,,


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